Drivin’ Through Philly (Glock in My Palm)

Yeah…

It’s that North to Southwest trip,

Concrete blessings and hollow tips,

Ain’t no Teddy P here, just fiends and flips,

And I’m still prayin’ I don’t slip.

Philly, what up?

Pulled up on The Strip, smell of Ocky fryin’ chicken,

Got that .40 on my lap, fucking paranoia still kickin’.

System bumpin’ loud — old-school Freeway, Beans, and State Prop,

Mix it with some Uzi and Meek, city beats don’t fucking stop.

Every block got motherfucking ghosts, murals tellin’ pain,

Brothers dead young, their mamas still in the rain.

Posted on the curb, damn talkin’ life with the killers,

Dreams in they eyes, but the dope still fillers.

Shit I Saw a preacher on 52nd, talkin’ ‘bout redemption,

Told me, “Keep your Glock close, that’s your own protection.”

Got this city in my bloodstream, it’s violent affection,

Heart cold as Broad and Erie, no love—just tension.

I ain’t walkin’ in Memphis, fucking ridin’ through trenches,

Philly streets don’t sing—they bench you or end you.

I’m drivin’ through Philly, Glock in my palm,

Whispers of the block still sing they song.

Every Jawn that pass, she thick and gone,

Every loss I took made my hustle strong.

I’m drivin’ through Philly…

Where the pain got rhythm, and the prayers all gritty.

Southwest hot, smell weed and fried rice,

Lil’ homie on the corner, tryna earn his stripes.

Said, “Big bro, how you make it through nights like this?”

Told him, “Never trust a bitch and always move with clips.”

Used to dream of fame, now I just dream of peace,

But fucking opps outside, so the dreams on lease.

Every corner got a candle, every name got a past,

Every tear from a mother hit the pavement fast.

Ain’t no angels in this city, just thugs with scars,

Bitches with hustle, and youngins wishin’ on cars.

And I still hear voices when the sirens hum,

Sound like prayers mixed with drums and slums.

I’m drivin’ through Philly, Glock in my palm,

Whispers of the block still sing they song.

Every Jawn that pass, she thick and gone,

Every loss I took made my hustle strong.

I’m drivin’ through Philly…

Where the pain got rhythm, and the prayers all gritty.

From Tioga to Hilltop, I was raised on the sound,

Hilltop Hustlers, Steady B holdin’ it down.

Cool C on the deck, Da Youngsta’s in the mix,

Philly taught me flow, rhythm, hustle, and grit.

Windows down, that beat in my fucking chest,

City of real ones, we never impressed.

Every legend from the block paved the lane I drive,

Still feel their spirit when I’m motherfucking cruisin’ alive.

Now I’m drivin’ through Philly, no choir, no fame,

Just a sinner with a story and a city in pain.

Three Times Dope, Ram Squad, Will Smith, Eve, Cassidy, and The Roots,

Paved this game before I laced my boots.

Philly forever—where the real never die,

We just ride ‘til we touch that sky.